


Polish

by yeaka



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ishmael cleans Queequeg off after aiding Tashtego.
Relationships: Ishmael/Queequeg (Moby Dick)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Polish

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set at the end of Ch58, after Queequeg’s heroics.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Moby Dick or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The Pequod’s in chaos, which isn’t all that unusual for a vessel stuck at sea on a particularly disagreeable night with particularly difficult prey. The sinking carcass of the whale is still visible beneath the waves, ramming the side of the ship as the storm tosses them both, and a dozen sailors are glued to the rails for it. While some scramble to revive Tashtego’s limp form sprawled across the deck and others hurry to hoist Daggoo back to safety, Ishmael hones in on their fallen hero— _his_ fallen hero, who could so easily have joined the other two at the bottom of the ocean. For all the times they’ve performed their dangerous duties together, Ishmael’s heart stopped when he saw Queequeg leap over the side. There was a split second where he was sure he’d never see the man again—the darkest end to his adventure that he could possibly imagine. But then he remembered the sheer strength and skill of the man he’s pledged his heart to, and Queequeg didn’t let him down.

Queequeg hauled Tashtego back aboard like an avenging angel, defying all perils in his path. He must have expended every rippling muscle, every ounce of energy, every inkling of will power in the epic feat that none of the others would even have conceived of. It’s a tale Ishmael’s dying to hear in detail, dying to record in his journal when the mess is over and they’re both below deck in the snug safety of their bunk. In the moment, it’s hard to picture peaceful times. 

Tashtego is groaning, slowly stirring. While Queequeg is conscious, he’s never looked so ruined, exhausted and unsteady, pale beneath the black of his tattoos. He tries to push himself off the deck but totters, falling back onto his rear and perching there, like a feral cat ready to spring rather than a broken dog at the end of a long day. 

Ishmael goes to him, drawn like always, and clasps both his shoulders, holding him steady against the storm. Queequeg looks up at the touch and into Ishmael’s eyes, his own still fearsome with the kind of determination a man can only show when rescuing another. Ishmael musters a grateful smile on behalf of the whole crew. He tries to be just as strong and not show the disgust at the slick texture of Queequeg’s skin, coated in a grime so thick and horrid that even being tossed about the waves wasn’t enough to wipe it off. Diluted blood and guts and the slick insides of the whale are caked on Queequeg’s flesh thick enough to cut off with a knife.

Queequeg might have the skill to remove it that way, but Ishmael doesn’t. When he retreats, he hurries instead to a barrel of rags rolled halfway across the deck. Wetting it in the salt water sloshed across the deck, he brings it back to where Queequeg’s kneeling. Maybe it’s not that right time for fussing, but the rest of the crew is hard at work and doesn’t notice to judge, nor really needs his help—they’re at the tail end of the disaster. So Ishmael busies himself with scrubbing his man down, fighting first the chunks on Queequeg’s face before he migrates down Queequeg’s broad shoulders and back. Queequeg makes a little noise of appreciation and rolls his body into the touch wherever it comes. Ishmael presses hard enough that it might be just as much a massage as a thorough cleaning, but Queequeg deserves that too. Queequeg peels the open tunic over his head before Ishmael’s even finished, and then Ishmael’s scrubbing the exposed skin below, right down to his legs. 

Tashtego’s being carried off by the time Ishmael’s finished, back on his own two feet but under Stubb and Starbuck’s arms. Queequeg moves to regain himself as well, and this time manages, maybe because Ishmael’s there to catch him if he falls. 

He doesn’t. He gives Ishmael a grateful pat, and Ishmael gives him a quick hug around the side. He adds a few words of encouragement—praise for the daring and marvelous acrobatics as well as the sheer bravery and fortitude, but the wind snatches much of it away. The rain has started pelting down hard enough to wash off whatever flecks of oil Ishmael missed. The crew’s surging to life to steady themselves amidst the storm, and they both have jobs to do.

With a deep breath, Queequeg wobbles off to do his. Ishmael has that familiar spark in his stomach—pleasure and honour at finding such a man—and then he follows suit.


End file.
